Same Sun Here (4 page)

This month there is a poem printed in the subway called “Quarrel.” It’s like something you’d overhear walking down the street. I memorized it because it’s short and because I was on the F train for a long time. It doesn’t rhyme, so maybe you will like it:

Sometimes Mum and Daddy act like that.

After I read that poem, I started listening in on people’s conversations, and all of a sudden, it was like everybody was talking in poem. Here’s something I overheard this morning while I was walking to the library. A lady in denim shorts and red high heels, carrying a package of toilet paper she’d just bought at the deli, said it into her cell phone.

It’s nice to have someone to talk about poetry with. Thanks!

Are freckles bumpy? I have always wondered. I think red hair is beautiful. My best friend in Mussoorie, Anuradha, has red hair and gray eyes. She is light skinned, like a white person, but she does not have freckles. Kiku says my skin is the color of tea in a cup. He says that in America, being dark and foreign can get people in trouble. He says that is clear if you look around the world and read the
New York Times
. I didn’t know what he meant until last month when we were at the library waiting in line at the photocopy machine. A crazy man called us terrorists. Then Kiku called the man an _______ and the security guard made us leave the library. I had never heard Kiku say a bad word before. He was so mad he punched a garbage can. I wish Kiku had explained that we are not terrorists. I am afraid the security guard at the library thinks I make bombs. I walk by him very quickly now. I never told anyone about this because Kiku said not to. He said it would make Mum cry.

Kiku says there are only two ways to be American:

1. Being born one
   

2. Getting papers from the government
   

He says once you are an American, even if someone calls you a terrorist, you can get a lawyer for free, and you can vote for Barack Obama.

I have never heard that people in Kentucky are stupid. If I ever hear someone saying that I will tell them they are wrong. I wonder why feeding pigeons is against the law but saying mean things about people isn’t. That doesn’t make any sense to me.

I think New Yorkers are very nice. On the subway, people give their seats to the elderly or children or pregnant ladies. Strangers carry strollers and heavy suitcases up the stairs for one another. People talk to each other, just because. When I first came here, I thought everyone was scary because they walked so fast and said a lot of bad words. But now I walk fast, too, and sometimes I say, “What the hell?” I have never been mugged and neither has Mrs. Lau, who has lived in Chinatown for fifty-five years. I told her what your mamaw said about stereotypes, and she said it was true. She said, “There’s good and bad people everywhere.” I wrote that down in my journal.

Maybe I’ll try it out now like a poem:

That was fun. Kiku says tourists who come here get drunk and shop and sightsee, but they do not understand the city. They think it is a playground, not a real place to live. He says it is because in the movies, New Yorkers always have a lot of money or are shooting each other. One thing I like about New York is that everyone is different. So nobody is weird because everybody’s weird. Maybe that doesn’t make any sense. But I am not going to cross it out.

I have never been in a cab, but my daddy’s friend Sushil-Uncle drives one. We walk and take the subway and sometimes the bus. Even Mayor Bloomberg takes the subway to get to work. I think it would be fun to raise my hand for a taxi and see it stop. But it is expensive.

Do you have a brother or sister?

I have not answered all your questions, but I have to go now and wash the dishes before Mum gets home. There are a lot in the sink and Kiku never does them.

August 28, 2008

It is one day later. I think I will write this letter like a journal. I have just taken Cuba for a walk. First I had to clean the sofa, because Kiku got bicycle grease on it. He doesn’t notice that it is always on his legs.

Your grandmother sounds very interesting. We learned about activists last year on Martin Luther King Day. I wrote a paper about how he was like Gandhiji, who fought the British. Can you tell me what is your mamaw fighting for? I hope she will win.

Is it fun to mow the lawn?

How many windows are in your house?

Do you have your own room?

Last night a big storm rolled in off the river. When I heard the thunder, I went out the window and stood on the fire escape so I could see the sky. It was grey and OMINOUS. I looked down in the street and saw everyone walking fast. Nobody had an umbrella because it had been sunny all day. The wind got strong and cold, and a garbage can on the corner blew over and rolled in the street and a taxi almost crashed into it. Then it started to rain so hard that people ran and flattened themselves against the sides of buildings. I could hear the gutters filling and the wind howling in the shaftways. I love when storms come and remind everyone that Mother Nature is stronger than anything. It is easy in New York to forget that.

The rain sounded different all over, hitting the garbage bags on the curb, the tops of air conditioners, the big cloth awning above the bodega, the windows, and the rusty fire escape. Then the lightning came. I was completely soaked and Mum leaned out and scolded me and told me to come inside. When I came in she gave me a towel for my hair, and I heard Cuba barking next door and remembered that Mrs. Lau had her windows open, so I went over there. I always wear the key to Mrs. Lau’s apartment around my neck.

Cuba was shaking, and his ears were flat against his head because thunderstorms scare him. All the parakeets were puffed up and squawking, and Mrs. Lau was trying to shut her window but it was stuck. I wish the landlord would come and replace her windows. She has been asking him for two years. They are not safe and they leak.

When I went back to our apartment, Kiku and Mum had lined up three chairs in front of the bedroom window. They had their feet on the sill and they were getting wet and laughing and passing a bowl of popcorn back and forth. They had left the middle chair for me. “
Arrey,
come, come, Mee-Mee!” Mum said, and we sat there and held on to each other and screamed like crazy every time the thunder came. It sounded like the storm was right on top of us. The curtains blew straight out and Mum rolled up the peacock bedspread so it wouldn’t get wet. We sat there and watched the storm like it was a movie, laughing and screaming and having so much fun. But you know, even though I was happy, I missed Daddy. He should have been having fun with us. And I missed Dadi. That is just what me and her always did when a big storm came in off the mountain. We’d stand together in the doorway and wonder at such a strong thing in the world. “God is great,” Dadi always said, especially during storms. Now there is no one to close the windows for her. There is no one for her to watch storms with. I am here and she is all alone. Just like Daddy, poor Daddy, who has to eat his meals standing up in the restaurant. He says the best thing about coming home is getting to sit down and eat all together as a family.

At one point during the storm, Kiku looked over at me and said, “I hope Ana Maria’s doing OK.” Then his face got pinched and scared because the big dummy had forgotten that Ana Maria is a secret!!!! He’s SO in love with her that he HAS to talk about her all the time!!! Anyway, Mum frowned, then raised her eyebrows like she does when she is both interested and suspicious. She said, “Who is this Ana Maria?”

I thought Kiku was going to fall down dead. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish. I felt so sorry for him that I made up a lie. I said, “She’s a girl at my school who is scared of lightning. Kiku thinks it’s funny so he’s being a jerk.”

Mum tsked and sighed and said, “Oh, Kiku. You be nice to that Ana Maria.”

Kiku looked at me and made his eyes wide and laughed his head off. He said, “If you say so, Mum.”

Whew. It was a close calling.

By the way, the reason why Ana Maria is a big secret is because Mum wants Kiku to marry an Indian girl. She says if he marries an American girl, she will die of GRIEF and SHAME. She also says I’m not allowed to EVER go on a date EVER and that she will pick out a nice boy for me when it’s time to get married. Kiku and I already have a plan that I will look ugly and act like a wild animal whenever I meet these boys Mum wants me to marry. And when I am seventeen, I will have a secret boyfriend FOR SURE.

When I was in India and it was just me and Dadi, we had a world map from
National Geographic
. We would unfold it and count all the mountains and rivers and countries and cities in between us and Mum and Daddy and Kiku. I think about that and I wonder if now Dadi counts alone. It is so sad to be far away from each other. We write Dadi letters, and we call Daddy on the phone, but it is not the same. Sometimes I get so sad that I have to stop in the middle of the sidewalk and stand still. It’s like my legs won’t move. All the people keep walking and all the cars keep driving and after a few minutes I know that I have to keep going. I know there is nothing to do but keep going like everybody else in the city. I think that, and then I am able to move again. But some days I worry so much I feel like my head will break into a zillion pieces.

I don’t know why I just told you all that. Sorry.

After the storm, Mum and myself wiped down the sills and floor and put the fans in the windows to drag in the cool air from the outside. The air was clean, the buildings were dripping, and the pavement was steaming and smelled like stones. I love the smell of summer pavement after rain. It is funny because Francie in my book also loves that smell. I want to try drinking coffee because she likes it. I think we have a lot in common.

By the way, I think
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
is not girly. I knew a girl in Mussoorie who would not wear her glasses, so she always got bad grades. She said she would rather be pretty than see properly. I think that is girly. But
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
is an amazing book for anyone. I am not sure, though. I have never had a friend who is a boy, except for Kiku.

One more by the way . . . I CAN believe that S. E. Hinton is a girl and that she wrote a book. Girls can do anything.

August 29, 2008

It is another day later and I am sitting on the fire escape. The sun is setting and the tops of the buildings look pink and gold. I can hear the couple on the fourth floor fighting. Kiku says they should get a divorce and stop keeping us awake at night.

You ask a lot of questions, so I think you will be a very good newspaper reporter some day. I have read your letter so many times that I have it memorized. It is good that the Summer Program has ended, because I have lots of time to write to you.

The red dot you asked about is called a
bindi.
Mum had a laugh that you thought it was Magic Marker. She said to tell you the bindi marks a place of wisdom on the body. It is a decoration, like jewelry. I’ve seen Christian people who wear a cross around their neck. A bindi is the same kind of thing. Mum wears a small one made of felt. It is only as big as the tip of a pencil, and it works like a sticker. It is red because she is married. I wear one during the festival season in October and November, if we go to temple or a party.

There are some famous white people who like to wear bindis, too, like Madonna and Gwen Stefani. I think it is kind of weird that they do that. Kiku says they are both Italian.

I have never been asked what I am good at, so I had to think about that question for a long time. I think I am good at reading and noticing things. I am also good at making a bundle of firewood on my back as I walk through the forest. But I cannot do that in New York City. Also, I have a very good sense of smell.

It would take a zillion pages to list all the things I am NOT good at.

At the library this morning, I looked at the book by your S. E. Hinton called
The Outsiders
. It was missing pages, so I didn’t take it out. I have put in a request for a copy from another library. It took me three months to get
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
because all the copies in the city were missing or on hold. I think it is a very popular book. I have already finished reading it, and I am now halfway through it again. It has some hard words but they are beautiful. My favorite new word is SUCCULENT. Since reading this book, everyone I pass on the street seems full of stories and dreams and a secret sadness.

My favorite meal is
chawal
(rice),
kala dal
(black lentils),
roti
(bread),
raita
(yoghurt), spicy mango pickle, and
sitaphal
(a kind of fruit). Dadi and I ate this meal all the time. Actually, I do not know if it is still my favorite, because I cannot eat it with Dadi and part of what made it taste good was being with her. I think Dadi would like where you live. If she comes to America, I will tell her about your uncle who sells houses. She does not speak English, so I would live with her and be her interpreter. Then we could all be neighbors.